


True to Form, True to Self

by eighth_chiharu



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Family Fluff, Fever, M/M, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 06:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighth_chiharu/pseuds/eighth_chiharu
Summary: Right after Hela is defeated and Thor decides on a course for Earth, everything that's happened proves to be too much for him, and he collapses. It's a good thing Loki's on board to help out.





	True to Form, True to Self

**Author's Note:**

> For kyuu. :)

Space is unending and cold, and they are alone. They have no-one but each other.

They have escaped Hela and saved the heart of Asgard. They’re technically heroes -- again -- but that victory means little if they don't manage to keep their charges alive. Not to mention, it’s notoriously difficult to validate or respect a nation that has no occupants.

_If a king rules a country and there is no-one around to witness it, does he rule at all?_

Loki, of any present save Heimdal, knows best how many shockingly evil beings prowl the cosmos, searching for victims. There's too many hunters, too many hostiles that would love to squash a bunch of helpless refugees. They need to strategize. They need to mold the remnants of their father's ambition into something manageable. Loki fully expects Thor to claim one or all of the rooms hiding in the sides of the ship, declare them his as a king would do. Occupy them, take his moment, clean away the blood and battle dust, fix his eye, order what food can be found, and begin a meeting to consolidate his power. It's the right thing to do.

Thor does none of that.

Now that they're truly underway, the explosion that rendered them all homeless fading into the vast field of stars, Thor turns from the window to regard his people. The survivors huddle together beneath a ceiling higher than some cathedrals’, inside the belly of a ship clearly meant to move cargo or monsters, bleating pathetically like the sheep they are. Thor does not avoid them or ignore them; he steps off the dais and wades into their presence, a solid ship in a sea that sighs. Loki’s older brother moves among what remains of Asgard, his hands outstretched, touching whoever comes within his reach. He goes quietly, his movements calm, his words soft. His murmuring barely clears the shoulders of the devoted. Loki has to get closer to hear.

 _Everything will work out. You’ll be all right. I’m sorry for your loss. We still have each other_.

Disgusting.

And yet… Sometimes honey works better, doesn't it? Perhaps Thor is practicing his well-honed art of making others feel special when in reality they are not. A smile, sunlight through the clouds, and anyone who saw Thor would worship him.

Loki certainly did.

No longer, however. He knows better. He knows much better than to be taken in by his brother's cheap charisma. Overused phrases parceled out to the crowd, empty and banal to Loki’s ears, but he’s alone in his judgement. The herd offers grateful tears, thankful handclasps. They’re too wrapped up in their own trauma to notice the important details.

They don’t see the dew of perspiration forming along Thor’s hairline.

Loki sees it, though. Of course he does.

The peons don’t mark the growing pallor of Thor's complexion, either. Neither does the Valkyrie, probably because she’s never seen Thor when he isn’t covered in blood, paint, or trash. She walks behind the new king, approval in her gaze, her shoulders back, not even the barest tinge of doubt in evidence. She’s clueless. Banner is the only one who might pick up on what's happening, but he's too distracted to comprehend anything that isn’t about himself. He trails after the other two, dressed in someone’s spare robe, gaze hopping from one thing to the next like a manic rabbit. His steps are halting, and his hands silently wash themselves over and over.

Briefly, Loki considers the fun to be had in riling Banner up, having him change into the great green beast at a time like this -- but he’s done that already, and it wasn’t as amusing as he’d thought it’d be. Besides, the Hulk is a hero, not a secret, and Loki needs this ship intact.

But a situation like this is rare; he can't do _nothing_. He waits another minute or two, watching and thinking, until citizens surround Thor, swallowing his attention whole with their grasping, desperate need for reassurance. Then Loki steps up just behind the Valkyrie and murmurs solicitously, despite the dagger suddenly pressed against his ribs, “I think your champion is starting to look a little green.”

The Valkyrie frowns for half a millisecond at Thor's back before whirling to find Banner in the crowd. Still, she hesitates. She knows Banner, or has known a version of him, and has fought beside him. She wants to believe he’ll be fine.

Loki undercuts that neatly.

“If he gets any more nervous, we’ll all regret it. I don’t know about you, but most of us require air to breathe, and there isn’t much of that out there --" He nods toward the cosmic void. "-- especially with a hole in the hull. Perhaps a brief walk with someone he counts as a friend would be…beneficial.”

She glares at him, but the pressure of the dagger disappears, leaving only a tiny damp hole that will soon heal. The bloodstains on the leather, however, will be harder to manage. He won’t forget that.

As he intended, she leaves her king to his adulations, slamming her shoulder hard against Loki’s as she passes him. He can hear her behind him as she reaches Banner -- “Hey, how’re you doing? I’m pretty sure I saw a synth over there, let’s get you a drink,” -- until the crowd closes up behind them, surrounding him. Uncertain fingers brush his robes, pale faces murmur thanks. They’re afraid of him, but still think he’s saved them.

Validation at last.

He smiles at the crowd, congratulates them on their bravery, and with each sweet, parental platitude, he moves closer to and closer to Thor. The dried blood around his brother’s wounded eye socket is mingling with the small beads of sweat, leaving faint scarlet streaks down one pallid cheek. No-one else sees. This will be far too easy.

Suddenly Thor looks up, and by planned chance -- because all other chance is far too risky -- his remaining eye meets Loki's over the heads of their people. The encouraging smile half hidden in Thor’s beard and meant for someone else quirks in surprise. Loki gives a seemingly helpless smile in return, brows raised, a _We’re in this together, how crazy is that?_ sort of look. Thor’s smile widens, and just like before, it's sunlight on a cloudy day, warm and wonderful. A heartbeat later, it falters. His hands go still, his gaze unfocused.

Here it comes.

Loki pulls on a questioning expression, as if he doesn’t know what’s about to happen. He does, obviously; he’s always one step ahead of Thor, ahead of everyone. He keeps the inquisitive face and pushes through the press of bodies toward his brother. For dramatic effect, he reaches toward Thor, motioning for him to _Come here, come closer._

Thor attempts to obey Loki -- and that alone is a rare, wonderful treat, and Loki will treasure this moment for aeons -- but there are too many of his loyal subjects hemming him in. He manages a couple steps, lifts his arm to try to catch Loki’s hand, and stops. The last of the color in his face drains away, leaving those bloody tear tracks standing out as starkly as red ink on white paper. Thor stumbles and slides downward, vanishing from view, and everyone near him gasps in confusion.

In an instant, Loki is shoving through the throng, fighting the tidal motion of the crowd until it parts for him. Thor is on his knees, head lowered, his empty socket leaking old blood onto the deck. Loki drops down beside him, nudging others out of the way to clasp Thor around the shoulders, every inch the solicitous sibling. He tells himself he isn't shocked at the heat radiating off his older brother. He was waiting for this, after all. It's not a surprise, not in the least.

“You overextended yourself, brother,” he says, just loudly enough for the closest concerned busybody to overhear. “Can you stand?”

“Yes. I only... I'm…” Thor trails off, his considerable weight slumping forward, into Loki’s hold. His head lolls onto Loki's shoulder.

“Brother?” Loki shakes Thor gently, perhaps far more gently than the situation requires, and receives no reply. Thor is unconscious, or incapacitated.

Perfect.

Loki spears the first person he sees with a piercing gaze. “Find something to serve as a stretcher. We'll carry him. And you --” Another body, one young enough to run. “ --prepare a room. Somewhere for him to rest. You have three minutes.”

They leap into motion like startled goats, bouncing away, energized with purpose. They could do nothing to help before, not even save themselves, but now they can make a difference. Loki has learned a few things in his discussions with his family. People need to feel necessary, even if that necessity is, well, unnecessary.

He stays where he is, letting all eyes absorb him cradling Thor like a child. As expected, word of what’s happened spreads in moments, and the makeshift stretcher arrives with Heimdall and the Valkyrie, both casting long, suspicious looks over Loki. When Loki surrenders Thor, under protestation of course, they insist on bearing the stretcher themselves, and choosing the room that suits their preference, just as he knew they would. It saves him from trying to lift Thor on his own, and from having to actually deal with his brother. He makes as if to follow, and when the Valkyrie fixes him with her icy stare, he hangs back, outwardly sorrowful at their mistrust. They carry Thor off, a fallen hero on a borrowed shield. Silence drifts into the gap, gathering around them like new snow.

Loki turns to the anxious crowd, hands up, palms outward. He raises his voice, calm and smooth as though he's talking to an assembly of children. “Do not let this event cast any shadows over your hopes, Asgard. Thor is strong. With our prayers and his own fortitude, he will recover. We have only to wait.

”He will, however, need us to be ready when he returns. To that end…” He lowers his hands, spreading them in pseudo supplication, a humble lord seeking approval. “As acting heir to the throne, I will assume command.”

He is prepared for reluctance. He has arguments and slick, skillful rebuttals ready for any who may be slow to accept him. But as he makes his way back to the wide window at the bow of the ship, pausing to take in the view of unending stars and darkness, someone makes a show of dusting off the lone chair on the dais. Loki pauses, smiling as though they've done him a great service. He settles into the chair and motions Korg over, and not one single voice protests.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Ruling now isn't any harder than it was when Loki had replaced Odin, but there are definite lacks in the creature comforts. He makes do with the synthesizer the ship has, and the small store of eclectic foodstuffs -- alien provisions are always interesting -- and someone finds an actual glass cup and brings it to him to use. There's no entertainment, of course, except the thrill of command. He takes brief pleasure in assigning people to sort out their fellows, make sure blankets and water are distributed, verify head counts to calculate rationing. He gives Korg some job or other, he can’t recall what, just something to keep him occupied and feeling important. And then… then there isn't really anything else to do but put a leg over the arm of his new throne, stare out at the vastness of space, contemplate their situation, and wonder if it would be possible to sell a few of his subjects to a slave trader without the rest of them getting too upset. Perhaps if he spun it as a noble sacrifice, a matter of pure survival, and asked for volunteers…

“My lord?” A man darts into Loki’s field of vision and bobs a cursory bow, totally insufficient to Loki's new rank. Breathless, he says, without leave to speak, “It's your brotherr, my lord. His fever is rising.”

What a lovely thought. Thor is really putting some effort into keeping Loki on the throne. As soon as Loki can procure a fruit basket, he'll send it to Thor's room. “I trust you're doing your best. I'm afraid I have little medical knowledge, so I can't be of much assistance.”

“It's not that, my lord, although we're doing all we can --”

“I'm sure you are. Perhaps the Valkyrie can help, if you need someone to hold him down and make him take his medicine.”

“We haven’t any medicine, m’lord.” So much of this ‘lord’ stuff. Shouldn’t it be ‘Your Majesty’? Or at the very least, ‘Your Highness’.

“Oh. That is a pity. Try ice. I’m sure the synthesizer can make some.”

“The doctor suggested that, but…” The man shifts his weight, glancing off to the side, clearly anxious. Loki heaves a sigh. Apparently, ruling an entire people, even only a thousand people, means doing every little thing for them.

“What?” he asks, a little more sharply than he intended.

“It’s, uh.” The man wets his lips. “It’s just --”

“ _Yes_?”

“The lightning, m’lord! It melted the ice, and it's burnt the room, blistered the paint, and they say if he doesn’t calm down, it’ll --”

Loki doesn’t allow the ill-mannered messenger to continue. He surges up out of his chair, startling the man into silence. He yanks his tunic into place, and forces his scowl into a smile. “Fine! Fine. Just -- lead me to him.”

The man bows again, as sloppily as before, and hurries down the steps to the dais. Loki grits his teeth, unable to share the man’s sense of haste. Yes, Thor’s a bit ill, but it’s not some big emergency. Loki does not appreciate being pulled away from important decisions to soothe the fever dreams of his hulking brother, who, by the way, isn't even in mortal danger.

They cross the enormous hold, threading their way between groups of Asgardians, Loki peppering his stroll with benedictions and nods of recognition. This seems to set his guide on edge, but Loki refuses to give in to Thor's childish tantrum. He soaks up the attention, unhurried, his booted footsteps quiet against the metal floor, until at last he reaches the far wall. There, the entry to the wing leading to the private rooms stands open, the hallway inside dim with soft blue light -- until lightning arcs across the space, white and sharp as broken ice. It disappears in a blink, but the smell of ozone sears Loki's nostrils, and white spots blot out his vision. Black marks smoke mar the walls, smoking ominously.

The man who came to fetch Loki glances at him. They both know what he's thinking, and he affects no bravery. “He’s in there”, he says, and barely tosses off another bow before running in the opposite direction as fast as his cowardly legs can take him.

A smaller flare crackles and briefly washes the color from the world. Loki's chest tightens, but he dismisses the sensation. It's only apprehension, not worry, and it's completely natural. Only a fool wouldn't be concerned about lightning burning one to a crisp. Still, he has a reputation to maintain. He quickens his step to prove to any onlookers that his bravery and concern for his brother are paramount in his thoughts. He strides down the hall to the last room on the left, where the door is ajar, and flashes of light flicker in irregular patterns.

Swallowing, he steps into the room.

It's smaller than he expected. The table is narrow, the decorations sparse, the writing desk and its chair spartan, and everything is in shades of gray and deep blue, like he remembered. He’d inspected every one of the cabins thoroughly before he’d reached Asgard, and this was the type he’d decided he would avoid if he had the chance. The Valkyrie and Heimdall do not share Loki's aesthetic. They have different, more practical minds. It makes sense, in a way. If one must nurse someone, a smaller space might be preferable. Easier to navigate, to keep the tools of comfort close to hand. A large room would encourage distance, or disregard.

Loki could never ignore someone here. Not this close.

The bed is only a few steps away, the source of the irregular lighting and smoke that smells like burnt fabric. Thor lies on his back, a blanket over his lower half, captured and twisted by his fists, charred around his fingers. He shifts restlessly, his bare chest and shoulders dewed with perspiration. Electricity crackles over him, shimmies and dances with lethal beauty, reflecting the sweat, illuminating his pain -- but the burnt skin of Thor’s injured eye absorbs light like a black hole.

“Mother,” Thor groans.

Loki’s lungs stop working. What? Thor isn’t a milksop who calls for his mother when something goes wrong. He’s stubborn and proud, he would never --

“Mother, please,” his brother begs. The blanket smolders.

Loki averts his eyes. The floor is rather an interesting pattern. Blue on blue-gray. He ought … he ought to call someone. Maybe the Valkyrie…

There's another sound, softer. Painful.

...All right, fine, if that’s what he wants. If that’s what they need to keep him from blowing the ship apart, then so be it.

Loki lifts his chin and shifts, changes shape with smooth fluidity, and suddenly he’s Frigga. The weight of her hair pulls at his scalp, piled in intricate braids on his head, flowing in golden waves down his back. Her robes slip over his skin, silver and sapphire. He glides to the bed, leaning down to touch Thor’s muscled forearm, his fingertips tingling with electricity.

“Hush, my darling boy,” he says, imitating the calming tones of her bedside voice flawlessly. Thor groans weakly, and Loki places his hand on his brother’s forehead, smoothing back his sweat-soaked hair. “Hush. You’re safe.”

Not a lie. A truth, for once, and a useful one.

Thor’s good eye rolls up, peering at Loki, the blue encircled by far too much white. Hoarsely he gasps, “Mother?”

“Of course, dear one.”

“Mother…”

“Yes, my son.” Is this all there is to calming the mighty Thor? This is easy. Loki can do this all day. He strokes Thor’s cheek, his hand light, gentle. “Your mother is here for you.”

“But...You’re dead,” Thor says, alarm widening his eye. Electricity sizzles around him. “You died.”

Loki laughs nervously. “What? No, no, shh, that’s ridiculous. Rest now, dear, listen to your mother --”

Thor’s gaze goes white, and blue arcs snap over his body, crisping the air. The leap out, stinging Loki, biting into his hands, his arms, grabbing at his hair, burning off the golden braids. His fists rip at the blanket, his breath speeding up, desperate.

“You’re _dead_!”

“All right, all right!” Loki drops the disguise, is instantly himself again and plants both hands on Thor’s chest. “Stop yelling! She’s dead, and so we’ll all be, if you don’t calm down!”

“She’s dead!” Thor shouts. “She’s --”

“I KNOW!” Loki pushes harder, using most of his weight. Ridiculous that Thor is still so strong! “It was me, you idiot, not her, it was never her! Now shut up before you kill everyone on this ship!”

“No, I --” His brother twists, grabbing Loki’s arm in a large sweaty fist. “Loki!”

“Yes, we’ve been over this --”

“Brother,” Thor exhales raggedly, “is it truly you?”

“I _said…_ ” Loki stops himself. Thor watches him like a child, expectant, but afraid. It's not as pleasant as Loki had anticipated, having Thor's fear.

He hesitates a long moment, Thor's harsh breaths and the sizzle of lightning echoing between them. Finally, he reaches out with his free hand. His fingers hover over Thor’s forehead, but end up on Thor’s broad shoulder. He squeezes the heated muscle. “It’s me, brother. It’s just me.”

Thor shudders. “You’re not dead, are you?”

“Against many others’ wishes.” Thor only blinks, confused, and Loki shakes his head and squeezes his brother’s arm again. “Never mind. No, I’m not dead. I’m alive, as you are.”

“We… We saved them…?”

“Yes. They’re safe.”

Thor gives a little sigh, rough and uneven. The frantic tautness of his body runs out of him like sand from a sieve. He sags back against the bed, huge and limp, his head rolling on the pillow to face the wall. A heartbeat, two, just enough time for Loki to wonder if Thor is unconscious again.

“I saw Mother,” his brother mumbles.

Uninvited memories intrude. Nights spent beneath bedsheet tents, orbs of light casting soft oranges and yellows across storybook pages, Loki curled safely against Thor's warm side. Their mother, bringing them sweets, their giggles punctuating each whispered, playful admonition to sleep.

“... It was a bad dream,” Loki says. He straightens, glancing around, and wonders why no-one has come to make sure he isn’t murdering their king.

Thor shivers. His voice is thick. “I miss her.”

Loki has no reply. Everyone misses Frigga. She was wonderful.

“I miss them both.”

Now Loki really has no answer.

Thor shivers again, and Loki is saved from having to make small talk about their dead parents. He reaches for the blanket, eases it from his brother’s hands, and pulls it up, covering Thor’s chest. Spread out like that, he can see the burn holes that pepper the fabric. “That’s… drafty. Do you want a heavier one?”

“I ruined everything. I should've been better.”

Lightning arcs, as small as a child’s sparkler, and adrenaline rises in Loki’s blood. He puts both hands out, patting at the air. “Stop that. No, no, you didn’t ruin everything. That’s my job. We all know this, it’s not anything special, so just. Just stop.”

“We used to be a family..”

“Brother, this is the fever talking. You’re ill, you made yourself sick --”

“Once, we were all happy. You used to be happy.”

The sorrow in his brother’s rough voice is too heavy to bear, and too personal to address. Loki can’t stand it. Quickly he grabs the blanket and jerks it up, dropping onto the bed at the same time. He doesn’t even kick his boots off before shoving his legs beneath the blanket and yanking the whole thing up over their heads. He’s too high up, his hips near Thor’s waist, but there’s no fixing it right this second.

“Long, long ago,” he says hurriedly, “there was a dove and -- and a porcupine. They were in love. There was a quest, of course. No-one can be properly wed without a quest. Are you listening?”

The lightning crackles, then slowly subsides. “... is this story about you?”

Loki wishes he could see his brother’s expression. “No, it’s about you, as it always is. You need to stop shaking like that, you’ll throw the ship off course.”

All electricity is gone, and the air is calm. Quietly, Thor grumbles, “It’s _cold_.”

Warmth drenches Loki from top to bottom. He doesn’t know why, only that he’s suddenly terribly, comfortably heated. “It’s not cold, you’re hot,” he manages to say. “Why do I have to do everything. Roll over.” He pushes at Thor’s shoulder. “Roll. There’s no room for anyone in here, if I try to fit, you’re going to cramp every muscle in that oversized meatsuit.”

He already fits, he’s obviously jammed himself into the bed, but Thor grunts and rolls as ordered -- onto his side to face Loki. The awful cavern of his injured eye is hidden from view, both by the pillow, and by the fact that he throws an arm over Loki’s waist and presses his forehead to Loki’s chest. He hugs Loki, holding him too close, and Loki can feel every tiny tremor.

“You're warm,” Thor hums, voice muffled against Loki. “... And tiny. You should eat more.”

Loki pulls a face. He can't decide where to put his own arm. “You're big.”

His brother makes a noise Loki can't identify and presses closer, his stomach against Loki's hips. He's unsanitary, hot, and sweaty. He smells like ozone and fire.

But under that… there’s the same scent there’s always been, isn’t there? It’s Thor.

Loki finally lowers his fast-tiring arm. He has nowhere to place it but around Thor's shoulders, so that's where it goes.The air around them is growing sultry beneath the blanket, humid with their breath, like a greenhouse. Gingerly, Loki pats Thor’s back. “Warmer now?”

“No.” Thor says that, but the shivering is less constant. Loki feels only small fits of it. Soon, it will stop altogether. Thor shuts his good eye and moves just a little, scooting even closer. He pushes his leg between Loki’s calves. “But thank you.”

Loki stares at nothing with wide, blind eyes as his own leg is shunted up and over Thor’s thick thigh. His brother’s hair tickles Loki’s chin. “Thank you? For what?”

Thor’s hand is against the small of Loki’s back, the pressure like a brand fresh from the fire. “Being in here. When you could be ruling out there.”

Cheeks flushing with a heat that is less comfortable, Loki says, “I can do both.”

Thor’s chuckle is rusty. “I know you can. Take care of them, then. Our people.”

“Of course. Just until you’re well.” He doesn’t need to answer at all, but he does, because to not answer right away would mean he isn’t sure. That’d be untrue. He is sure. He’s very sure. Very sure he wants to be respected, loved. Just like Thor. Not like Loki, not like how he is now.

He holds onto Thor’s shoulders, pressing his palm against Thor’s shoulder blades. Not like Loki.

“The porcupine,” Thor mumbles.

Loki huffs a surprised breath. “I thought you were -- Go to sleep!”

“But the story…”

“Oh.” Yes, there is a story, isn’t there? One he was making up, because they have no storybook. No mother. Only the blanket tent on a mattress that isn’t theirs.

Thor would make a better king.

“The porcupine was a thrush under a curse. If they wanted to be together, the dove and the cursed porcupine had to find a way to lift the enchantment. Their first stop on their journey was to the wisest squirrel in the forest…”

It’s easy to talk. Loki’s been talking and spinning tales his entire life. He tells one now, long and boring and soft as porridge, his voice coaxingly dull, until Thor’s breathing evens out, and his muscled arm sits heavily along Loki’s waist. His brother’s hand falls away from Loki’s back, naturally limp with sleep.

Loki waits for someone to come. No-one does. He doesn’t think they can possibly trust him with this much silence, with Thor so close, but there is no interruption.

The wall is smooth metal. Thin seams. Loki stares at it and counts to a thousand before he dares to move his head. He lowers his chin, to relieve the strain on his neck of staying in one position too long. He has no choice in the movement; it’s the only thing he can move at all. Thor has him pinned. There’s no room in this small bunk for two grown men. They’re crowded in here, just as the rest of Asgard is out there. Everyone smooshed together like fish packed in a barrel.

He shifts slowly, so slowly, until his face rests against Thor’s thick hair; his lips press against his brother’s scalp. He can feel his own warm exhalations.

Thor sighs in his sleep.

Loki is still. He shouldn’t move, lest he wake Thor from his much-needed rest. He’ll just have to stay put. Entwined. Wrapped up in Thor’s arms. And just when Loki was doing such a wonderful job as king, too. A shame.

It’s not Loki’s fault this happened. Thor needs him; he has to stay. It’s what he’ll tell anyone who asks. It’s definitely not his fault. There’s just nowhere else to go.


End file.
